


Hell is in the Heart

by TravelersUnite



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Crimson Court AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, My First Fanfic, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-01 13:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11487393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelersUnite/pseuds/TravelersUnite
Summary: A dramatization of my Darkest Dungeon playthrough. The save is currently at 273 weeks, so for the sake of my sanity, this fic will be condensed into 21 chapters. Also, my first fanfiction! Let's hope this goes well.





	1. On The Old Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You will arrive along the old road. It winds with a troubling, serpent-like suggestion through the corrupted countryside, leading only, I fear, to ever more tenebrous places. There is a sickness in the ancient pitted cobbles of the old road, and on its writhing path you will face viciousness, violence, and perhaps other damnably transcendent terrors. So steel yourself and remember: there can be no bravery without madness. The old road, we'll take it to hell, but in that gaping abyss, we will find our redemption."

            The last of the day’s light, strangled by the forest’s dying trees, filtered softly through the stagecoach’s muddy windows. The carriage jumped as it hit another pothole, causing Dismas to bite his tongue for what must have been the tenth time that evening. Internally cursing the mad driver, Dismas took to polishing his dirk once again. The blade was spotless, cleaner than it had been in years, but it helped to ease his panicked mind…a little. There was only so much it could do to drown out the rattling windows, creaking wheels, and impending sense of doom. C’mon, a single, unguarded stagecoach bumbling along a forest trail long ago forsaken by any intelligent traveler? They were asking to be robbed…if they didn’t roll off the road first.

            Fortunately for his sanity, Dismas was not alone in the stagecoach. Unfortunately, the knight accompanying him was even more asocial than Dismas: a feat, honestly. The knight’s armor, while polished and clean, was battered and scrapped from years of use. The blue-and-gold surcoat hanging against his chest was clean yet tattered, fraying at the edges; the vibrant colors were lost to years of scrubbing and sun bleaching. Emblazoned on the center was a golden, eight-pointed star, marking the knight as a Crusader…if his longsword hadn’t given him away already. Dismas didn’t have a _positive_ relationship with authority figures or religious zealots, so he preferred the silence.

            The knight sat opposite to Dismas, straight-backed and still, foiling Dismas’s slouched form and nervous rocking. He silently traced the golden rosary in his hand, following the edges like clockwork—how his thumb hadn’t seized up from the motion was anyone’s guess. If Dismas hadn’t spotted the knight conversing with the driver before boarding, he would have suspected that the knight was really some sort of automaton…more than he already did, that is.

            Returning his blade to its sheath, Dismas contemplated on how he had gotten himself into this mess. He had taken to a pub in some small town along the battered side road. The bar was well stocked, but the drinks were cheap and bitter. Rather than sequestering himself to a glass, he moved on to the gambling hall. Now, if his face wasn’t plastered on every wall for his… _unsavory_ history, then it certainly was for his absolute dishonesty at every form of gambling. On the rare occasion that he was a fresh face to the town, he took his weighted dice and hidden cards up and down the hall until the gamemaster caught on, but by then, Dismas had slipped off into the night, full of liquor and pride.

            Well, that was his plan, at least. While Dismas took his well-earned drinking break at a dusty table against the wall, he was joined by a lanky, warted, tree of a man. The man practically collapsed into the chair opposite of Dismas, seemingly drowning in his drink. The wooden chair groaned under the sudden weight, threatening to give way. Not one for… _that_ type of company, Dismas rose, ready to begin playing again.

            “Have you heard of the Promoiros estate?” the man whispered, his voice cracked and gravelly as if the words were strangled from his warped throat.

            Taken aback, Dismas chuckled, rolled his eyes, and slid back into his seat.

            “Unless there’s something in it for me, I’m not interested.”

            As if waiting for that response, the man reached into his coat and slammed a small bag overflowing with golden coins onto the counter with such force that it silenced nearby talk of blackjack and sexual favors. Dismas inspected one of the spilled coins; if it was fake, it certainly fooled him.

            “My heiress requires skilled hands for, how do you say, restoring her recently inherited estate to its former glory.”

            This man sounded far too eloquent for how drunk he had initially appeared.

            “You have heard of the tragic passing of my dear Lord Howard, yes?”

            Dismas nodded, picking up a second coin. Again, it _looked_ real.

            “Well, in his final will, bless his soul, Lord Howard left his estate in its entirety to his granddaughter. However, after his passing, the lands feel into disarray-”

            Dismas struggled to stifle a laugh—yeah, as if that was the only contribution.

            “-so, my heiress is looking for aid. This gold here was recovered from the catacombs beneath the manor. As payment for assisting my lady, a share of all treasure recovered will be yours to keep.”

            Dismas paused, “And how many drunken fools have you tricked so far?”

            The man smiled, revealing his rotten, black teeth, “Oh no, Dismas, my lady asked for you specifically after hearing of your handiwork.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Shocked and slightly impressed, Dismas agreed to venture to the estate, if only to survey the extent of the offer further. It was one thing for this heiress to request his expertise, but her manservant tracking him down after lying low for months? How flattering.

However, it was after the journey began that he was certain that he had made a mistake. What if this was all some sick ruse to bring him into custody? That would explain the knight, but why would they neglect to even bind his wrists? To create a false sense of trust? Men of his kind couldn’t afford to ignore their paranoia. But now, three hours into the journey, plunged into blackness, all Dismas could think of was the loaming threat of highway robbery. Was he really unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end the first time he rode in one of these blasted carriages?

The first bullet pierced the windows just inches from Dismas’s head. Dismas hit the floor in an instant, dusty glass raining over him. The knight followed soon after, his hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. As Dismas fumbled for his flintlock, a second shot rang out, followed by the dry crunching of one of the wheels. The stagecoach pitched to the left; Dismas managed to hold his balance, but the knight wasn’t so lucky. He crashed into Dismas, sending them both tumbling.

Dismas gasped for air, his breath knocked out of him as the knight pinned him against the seat, his armor digging into Dismas’s skin. A third shot blew through the carriage, showring the men in a downpour of splinters and gunpowder. After the fourth and fifth shot narrowly missed their mark, the driver began swerving back and forth far too quickly. The carriage veered right, lifting on two wheels. All it took was a second for both wheels to crumble. The stagecoach jolted, spun, and stopped, gently teething on the edge of the trail. Dismas froze, unable to move as they slipped further and further, the horses scrambling and screaming and the driver’s wild, maniacal laughter ripping through the air…until they fell.

The stagecoach hit the slop rolling. Dimas grasped for anything solid in the weightless frenzy, all sense of direction lost as they rolled down and down. Crashing into every solid surface inside the carriage, Dismas closed his eyes, praying for the madness to end. After several seconds of agony, his prayer was answered; what was left of the stagecoach collided against a tree with a nauseating crunch, throwing Dismas against the wall one final time. He crumped against the floor, shaking, bleeding, but alive. He slowly opened his eyes, afraid that the nightmare somehow wasn’t over. but it was. And he was still in one piece. The knight groaned nearby; other than a few new dings in his armor, he seemed fine.

The carriage, however, was a different story. The already sad excuse for a wagon was in such disarray that even a stray dog would turn its nose up and look elsewhere. The two men laid atop of what used to be the door. The old ceiling receiving the brunt of the tree’s wrath, now reduced to musty splinters. The wall above them had cracked open, revealing countless stars in the darkness.

Dismas was the first to stand, grimacing at the many splinters and aches now adorning his body. The knight rose soon after, carefully testing his footing. Confident that his legs could still support him, the knight slowly drew his longsword from its sheath, shifted it in his hands, and slammed the pommel at the shreds remaining of the wall. It crumpled like paper, creating a moderate hole for the two to shimmy free from.

The weald’s soil smelt bitter, and the flora clearly suffered—the mangled trees showed signs of rot, their leaves long fallen and scattered despite the warm summer air. Something sinister had poisoned the woods, something unnatural.

The final remaining wheel of the carriage spun lazily, dripping with blood. It didn’t take long to find the culprit; of the two horses pulling the stagecoach, one had freed itself during the tumble and fled, but the second wasn’t so lucky. The horse frantically gasped for breath, shuddering against the cold night air and weakly flailing its twisted limbs. Its chest was a matted mess of dirt, fur, and blood. Its eye skittered back and forth, and each panicked breath came out as a low whistle through its mangled throat.

Dismas was quick to retrieve his flintlock from his coat picket—in just a second, the shuddering stopped, and the dying forest fell quiet once again. Dismas silently cursed, painfully aware that the driver was nowhere to be seen. If he hadn’t been shot by the bandits, there was no way the man survived the tumble down the hill. Despite his concern, Dismas felt a cold ache in his chest as the man’s ragged laughter reverberated in his brain. Without a trace of panic in his voice, the man simply sounded…insane seconds before his demise.

Gunfire broke the silence, this time from higher on the slope. The knight brandished his longsword, scanning the forest instead of taking cover. Dismas fled from the wreckage, ducking behind one of the larger trees. But the knight held his ground near the stagecoach remains as the bandits appeared, as if he planned to apprehend them in the same fashion as unarmed heretics.

There were three brigands in total. The two approaching the knight were large in stature; the larger held a whip embedded with glass and stone, the other brandishing long twin shivs. However, the real threat, and Dismas’s target, was the scrawny man clutching a rifle. He had positioning himself further up the hill, crosshairs on the knight. Fighting two versus three was already unfair, but doing so uphill? What a joke.

Dismas took aim at the gunman and fired. The bandit screeched, dropping his gun; Dismas had narrowly missed his heart, instead ripping a hole through his shoulder. Like riding a bike, Dismas would have to shake off his rust, but he could handle this. The gunman was quick to recover, however, taking cover and firing a shot of his own, only hitting the nearby dirt. The firefight continued, with Dismas slowly chipping away at the bandit: an ear here, an arm there. Focus, Dismas, fo-

The knight cried out, snapping Dismas’s attention away from the gunman and nearly getting himself shot. The two larger bandits that charged down the hill now had the knight pinned against the stagecoach’s remains, even at this distance, Dismas could see the shiv wedged in the knight’s side, precisely jammed through a chink in his armor. The knight stood strong, parrying blow after blow…but something was wrong. Dismas could tell that the bandits weren’t fighting their hardest, allowing the knight a swipe here or there. Like a cat playing with its food, wanting a show before digging in.

Dismas should have been grateful for the distraction; there was no way he could do this single handedly. And this wouldn’t be his first time leaving another man as bait.

So why couldn’t he do it now?

Biting his lip and cursing up a storm, Dismas abandoned his hiding place and bolted towards the knight. If anything, at least eh enemy gunman was so shocked that he ceased firing. Still, as Dismas drew closer and closer to the fight, he felt every sane fiber in his being scream for him to turn around. But Dismas tuned it out. Once he grew close enough to the fight, the shot he needed became clear. The bandit with the knife was doing the most damage, much more nimble than the hulking knight could handle. But the bandit was too focused on the knight to notice Dismas approaching and top speed, raising his flintlock to-

            Dismas’s hand exploded in a sudden burst of pain. He dropped his gun, screeching in agony. The enemy gunman had shaken off his surprise, chasing Dismas and landing a lucky shot through his palm just in time. Now all three of the bandits had their eyes on him, and his gun hand was useless. Despite the warm air, a bitter cold seemed to crawl into his veins through the wound, tightening around his heart. The knight’s frantic shouting was drowned out by the shower of bloody glass onto the fresh snow, the child’s cold, dim eyes-

            It was the second shot nicking Dismas’s shoulder than forced him back to reality. Dismas darted left, narrowly avoiding a swipe from the bandit’s shiv.  His flintlock out of reach, Dismas resorted to the dirk in his coat pocket, brandishing it threateningly. While his gun was preferred, Dismas had survived for years with only this dirk in hand.

            The bandit swung, and Dismas raised his blade to parry. The impact forced Dismas further down the hill, nearly knocking him off his feet. Seeing Dismas stumble gave the bandit the confidence to push harder. As he prepared to slash again, Dismas ducked, swiping his blade across the bandit’s waist. The bandit groaned, taking a step back.

            “You’ll pay for that, rat.”

            “Put it on my tab.”

            The bandit growled, growing increasingly frustrated. He swiped again, but Dismas easily slipped out of the way, taking a sizeable slice from the bandit’s arm and it whizzed past him.

            “Oops, did that hurt?” Dismas smirked, drinking in the pure frustration seeping from the man.

            With an aggravated huff, the bandit prepared another swipe, and Dismas raised his dirk to parry once again. Instead of closing the distance again, however, the bandit swung his arm, flicked his wrist, and let go…

            The shiv stuck, buried in the flesh under Dismas’s collarbone. The bandit followed up with a kick to Dismas’s chest—Dismas tumbled backwards, his blade falling from his grasp. He frantically scrambled, desperate to get back on his feet, but the bandit was on top of him; the cutthroat stomped down on Dismas’s ribs, pinning him in place. As Dismas squirmed, the bandit pressed harder, leaving Dismas gasping for air. The bandit leaned forward, ripping the shiv from Dismas’s shoulder.

            “I thought you street rats knew better than to invade someone’s turf,” the bandit hissed, “So what do you think you’re doing here?”

            Dismas glanced to his left; his dirk was maybe two feet away.

            “I’d consider myself more of a dog than a rat, don’t you agree?”

            He shakily lifted his hand and reached, his fingers brushing the blade…  
            “Why don’t we all just calm down and talk thi-“

            The bandit swung his shiv down, pining Dismas’s left hand into the dirt. Dismas hissed and bit his lip, pain surging through his arm with every twitch.

            “Do you think this is funny? That you’re accomplishing something here?”

            When Dismas stayed silent, the bandit grinned, “Oh, look at you, shaking like a leaf.”

            Indeed, Dismas was shaking. But not because of the bandit pinning him down. No, what Dismas was terrified of was the white figure leaning over head, inching closer. It raised its hand, fingers grasping towards Dismas’s face. It breathed out, long and slow, mouth impossibly wide.

            Her hair was ratted and falling from her scalp, her eyes washed out and glossed over, her chest ripped open, splattered with gore. After all these months, she was here for him.

            For revenge.

            “I’m sure you’ll make a great pelt for Commander Vvulf.”

            With a solid crash, the weight pinning Dismas down was lifted as both the bandit and the ghost were swept away by a streak of red and silver. Dismas laid still, wide eyed on the forest floor, listening to the bandit drown in his own blood.

            “Are you all right?”

            The knight kneeled at Dismas’s side, quickly ripping the shiv from his hand. The knight’s armor glistened under the stars, bandit’s blood dripping from every surface.

            Dismas nodded, any words of thanks trapped in his throat. The knight, after quickly searching the pouch at his side, returned with a roll of gauze and a vial that glistened in the starlight. He gingerly took Dismas’s left hand, inspecting the wound. After several seconds, the knight removed the cork from the vial and slowly dripped three drops into Dismas’s palm. Dismas hissed, the clear liquid stinging as it reached the wound.

            “Holy water,” the knight stated, “To prevent infection.”

            Dismas nodded; this man had saved his life, so Dismas could stomach the gesture. Barely.

            Once satisfied, the knight began wrapped Dismas’s hand with gauze, slowly lacing the wrapping through Dismas’s fingers until it held tight. He then moved onto Dismas’s right hand, repeating the procedure for the gunshot wound. As the knight leaned forward to see the shiv’s damage, Dismas cleared his throat and pushed himself upright.

            “Save some of that water for yourself.”

            “I am fine.”

            The knight practically shoved Dismas back into the dirt, pulling his coat back and inspecting the injury.

            “Whoa, at least take me to dinner first.”

            The knight ignored Dismas, sprinkling the injury with more magic water. Lovely.

“Listen, I’m fine, really. And I know you warriors of sunshine-“

            The knight hmphed in displeasure. Okay, strike one.

            “-think you’re made of steel or something, but I can’t have you bleed out on me. Just let me have a look.”

            Once the knight was satisfied with Dismas’s shoulder, he relented, lifting his chainmail to reveal an ugly wound above his hip. The shiv had shredded through cloth and skin, digging deep and bleeding heavily. Dismas grimaced and reached into his coat. The knight held up the remaining holy water, but Dismas shook his head, instead procuring a silver flask along with a needle and thread. Convinced that the knight was absolutely livid beneath his visor, Dismas quickly began rinsing the wound with the brandy—Dismas did not trust that water to do much good, especially with an injury this severe.

            Then, once the needle was threaded, Dismas got to work. Sure, he originally began packing the materials for sewing new patches onto his threadbare coat, but he’d gotten damn good at stitches too. The knight stayed silent, observing Dismas’s progress. Within seconds, Dismas had finished the job. Not a long-term solution, but it was enough for now. As Dismas began packing away his supplies, the knight quickly splashed the wound with the last of his Holy Water before doing the same.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            Dismas elected that they return to the trail in hopes of completing the journey on foot, and the knight was too weak to protest. The knight had initially attempted to walk on his own, but it soon became apparent that he needed Dismas’s help. So Dismas offered his shoulder and the two staggered down the old road without a word.

            It took the men five hours to reach the estate. Dismas was impressed by the knight’s stamina. Several times he requested they stop and rest, but he still trudged on…although Dismas was practically dragging him by the time they arrived.

            Even in his exhaustion, Dismas could tell that the estate was in shambles. The buildings were long ago abandoned and boarded up, seemingly without life…except for one. Near the center of the hamlet was a building similar to the rest in terms of disarray, but the windows of this one glinted; someone was inside.

            The most difficult part of the journey by far was the final stretch across the hamlet—despite being so close to their goal, the knight could barely move at a snail’s pace, his breath ragged and body trembling. As they neared the solitary building, the etched sign above the door seemed to glint in the starlight: BARRACKS.

            After somehow scaling the three short steps leading to the building, Dismas eagerly rapped on the door. After one…two…three seconds of silence, he raised his hand to knock again, only to be interrupted by frantic steps approached form inside. The door swung open, revealing the toothy grin of the stagecoach driver.

            “Ah. Dismas, Reynauld, welcome!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, and that's it! This chapter went through six or so rewrites, and I'm quite satisfied with this one! I've been terribly nervous about posting this, as I've never posted any of my fics before, so hopefully you guys like it!
> 
> Also, fun fact, the estate name (Promoiros) is a romanization of the greek word πρόμοιρος, which essentially means "untimely death"  
> Another name that I considered was Apotelesma, latin for "the influence of stars on destiny", but I thought Promoiros was more fitting considering the source material. 
> 
> Our next chapter is titled "A Mecca of Madness and Morbidity", see you then!


	2. A Mecca of Madness and Morbidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to switch perspectives and meet the ladies!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This sprawling estate, a Mecca of madness and morbidity. Your work begins..."

            It started as a vibration, gently seeping into his mind. Serenity spilled deeper and deeper, filling him to the brim with peace. The shaking slowly took shape, rising and falling in shape and size, seamlessly shifting into notes. The melodies curled and danced, flowing into…song.

            Someone was singing.

            Reynauld struggled to open his eyes; it was as if anchors were dragging his eyelids down, attempting to drown him in slumber. Through his hazy vision, the air swirled with the sun’s dancing rays, the sickeningly sweet stench of antiseptic, and a soft song. An enormous bird perched nearby, its tattered gray feathers tipped with red and green, and its black eyes unblinking and stretched wide. Its quiet melodies hissed through its beak, the words on the verge of being coherent.

            Then, as the fog in his mind began to clear, a torrent of anxieties sprung to life, overtaking Reynauld all at once. The last thing he remembered was stumbling down the old road. Were they ambushed again? Had his suspicious travel companion turned on him as he had feared? Where in the world was he now? Oh, holy light, was he dead?

            Notching Reynauld’s panic, the singing stopped, and the bird spoke.

            “Ah, you’re alive!” Its voice was nasally and shrill, making Reynauld wince, “I was worried that you would never wake up, but this is excellent news! Oh, I must record this once we’ve finished. Here, inhaled this!”

            A vial of some putrid concoction was thrust against Reynauld’s visor. Reynauld instinctually swatted it from the bird’s talons, sending it tumbling to the floor with a tinkling crash.

            “Involuntary muscle spasms? Unexpected! How do you feel? Energized, perhaps?”

            Energized was an understatement. Reynauld’s vision had sharpened tenfold, the once soft light now painfully bright. He pushed himself upright on trembling arms, his heart thundering in his chest. The remnants of the foul vapors stung in his throat and chest, and it only worsened as he let out several wet coughs.

            Vision now clear, Reynauld could see that he was in a bed, its scratchy wool blankets soaked in crimson. Someone had removed his armor—the bird, presumably—but was considerate enough to leave his helmet; even this creature understood the importance of a holy knight’s helm. Still, the metal had bitten through the skin at the base of his shoulders, and his neck was terribly sore.

            The bird—no, not a bird: it was too tall, too human. What initially appeared to be feathers were actually a ragged cloak covered in stains of every color, most prominently a deep red and bright green. Its talons were worn leather gloves, brittle and peeling. Most puzzling, however, was its mask; it elongated into a curved beak, and large, dark goggles rest on its base. It was a Plague Doctor perched over his bed, and that was the last thing he wanted to wake up to.

            “Are you all right?” It…no, _she_ asked, tilting her head, “I must apologize, I have never had the luxury of treating a moly msn. You are as resilient as the rumors said. Oh, may I have you drink this mixture? It will only burn mildly.”

            As the doctor began fervently mixing several vibrant liquids in another vial, Reynauld surveyed the room; pardon the bed, a trunk, and a small bedside table, the room was bare. The doctor had monopolized every nearby flat surface, crowding bubbling solutions and colorful powders around her. A small pair of scissors caught Reynauld’s eye—the bloodied shears had been hastily thrown aside, along with several scraps of thread, and Reynauld felt his side ache

            “Where,” Reynauld grimaced, his throat ragged and inflamed, “Where is the other man?”

            “Oh, he scampered off not too long ago, something about forgetting to thank someone for something, he was out the door as soon as the sun came up.”

            “Ah…all right,” Reynauld slumped back into the bed, the sudden surge of energy beginning to fade, “And you are?”

            “I am Paracelsus Theophrastus von Hohenheim the Sixth, but you can call me Para. Now tell me, how does this mixture taste?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            After giving the door one final shove, Junia swept the accumulating sweat from her brow, the new scrapes and splinters in her palm stinging bitterly. In all of her efforts, the had successfully broken away a single plank from the Abbey’s barricade. There were countless boards haphazardly nailed to every window and door, and at this pace, she would never finish.

            Junia sank to the ground, her heart aching in disappointment. She had been utterly defeated by no more than some wood, and the blazing sun beating down relentlessly sure didn’t help. With a sorrowful sigh, she unscrewed the lid of her canteen, threw her head back, and took a long drink. The liquid, after baking in the sun all day, did little to ease her thirst, but it was something to tide her over until-

            “What’sa lovely lady like you doing out here?”

            Junia sputtered, choking on her drink. She thumped her chest, gasping for air, and turned to glare at the offender. It was one of them ne that hard arrived the night before: Dismas, was it? After arrived, he had insisted that she care for his companion first, and Junia was more than happy to oblige.

            Even in his wounded state, Dismas seemed to ooze evil intentions. While Junia was far from eager to treat him, the heiress asked Junia specifically to heal the man’s injured hands. Despite the red bandana drawn across the lower half of Dismas’s face, Junia could see the smirk in his dark, sunken eyes. The sides of his hair had been sloppily shaved—by himself, probably—and his crooked nose was evidence of innumerable fights. His gray coat was far from fitted, a tattered amalgamation of cloth patches and bloody stains.

            Swallowing her pride, Junia agreed to lend her assistance once the knight was in stable condition. Balancing her holy verses in one hand and loosely gripping Dismas’s writ in the other, she began the Hymn of Healing exactly as she was taught. Its true name had been lost to time, the words written in an ancient tongue forgotten by all. However, when sung by a holy Vestal of the Light, it had profound healing qualities. It was Junia’s duty to give her voice in the name of the Light—her whole life had been devoted to it.

            But despite receiving such a divine blessing, Dismas had the nerve to mock her.

            “Your E’s are too flat,” Dismas protested, clearing his throat and humming a… _sharper_ E, “See?”

            That was strike one, even if he _was_ right. Strike two was leaving without thanking her for her services.

            And now, in front of the abandoned Abbey, Junia wanted nothing to do with him. No honest man made Junia this uneasy—he was clearly a brigand—only the holy Light knew why the heiress wanted his aid, but Junia did not trust him, not one bit.

            “I am quite busy, as you can see!” Junia shouted, praying for her voice to stay strong.

            “Oh, I see. Is that why I smell whiskey on your breath?”

            Strike three.

            “How dare you!?” Junia sputtered, rising to her feet and cursing her rapidly flushing cheeks.

            “Easy, easy, it’s just a joke.”

            Junia sucked on her teeth, “Jokes about a Vestal’s purity are in extremely poor taste. Apologize!”

            “All right, all right, I’m sorry,” Dismas drawled, “Here, let’s hug it out.”

            “Don’t you have…I dunno, a stagecoach to be robbing?”

            That seemed to shup him up. In the newfound silence, Junia turned back to the barricade, giving it another shove. The boards creaked, but they did not give.

            “Need some help?”

            Dismas approached the door, far too close to Junia’s comfort. Did this brigand really think himself worthy to stand in a Vestal’s presence, at the foot of an Abbey no less? His lack of respect was appalling, sickening even.

            “No,” Junia snapped, “I do not require help.”

            Junia rammed her shoulder against the barricade once again, rewarded with another groan but no real progress.

            “Here, stand back.”

            Dismas grabbed Junia by the shoulders and guided her away—the nerve of this guy! If this were any decent city, his hands would be removed, his head even!

            Dismas placed his palms flat against the wood—oh holy Light, he was still wearing the ripped gloves form the night before—and gave the barricade a solid kick; the dry wood split with ease. He kicked the planks again and again, taking out a board or two every time until a moderate hole opened.

            “Better?”

            Junia could practically feel his smug tone but refused to acknowledge it, instead ducking inside of the new opening.

            The Abbey had clearly been abandoned for a terribly long time. Dust caked every surface of the entryway, and the walls were slick with grime and mold. Piles of splinters and stone lined the walls, pressed against the corners by the whistling wind. The stone floor was uneven and cracked, and fungi sprouted through the open soil beneath. The doors ahead lay open, one no longer attacked to the frame.

            “A bit of a fixer-upper, no?”

            Junia couldn’t help but groan as Dismas joined her. Determined to drive him away, Junia ignored him in favor of examining the room ahead. It had been cathedral at one point. The elevated podium at the center had been long ago reduced to rubble, the pews were arranged into some bizarre maze, the holy verse books had been devoured by worms, and the overhead chandelier, once an altar to the Light, had tumbled down…but it was still a holy place. She could feel it.

            Junia took a deep breath before grabbing the end of the closest pew and lifting. It was terribly heavy, and there was an earsplitting shrieking as the wood scraped along the stone floor. After several seconds of dragging, Junia was satisfied; she dropped the pew with an awful crash. One down, ninety-nine to go.

            After Junia successfully ignored Dismas’s barrage of conversation starters, she almost didn’t notice him slipping off through the maze of pews. Once he reached the opposite wall, he disappeared through a well-hidden door; if Junia wasn’t certain that he was trying to get her attention, she would have chased after him.

            She had straightened three additional pews when Dismas returned with a…broom? He wiggled through the mess of pews once again, carefully avoiding the chandelier’s remains. Junia waited for him to waltz over, to jab her with the broom handle…but he didn’t.  Instead, he moved to the entrance and began sweeping.

            In an attempt to drown out the terrible screeching of the wood against the floor, Junia began humming to herself. She would never admit it aloud, but this particular hymn, the Hymn of Healing, was one of her weakest. In all other aspects, she was a prodigy amongst the other sisters in training; she could produce dazzling light with extraordinary precision, perfectly perform the sacred rituals, always follow instructions…

            Whispers fluttered about the sanctuary, accompanied by the muffled snickers of her sisters and disappointed glances from the elders. A Vestal’s main duty was to tend to the sick and injured, and she couldn’t. However, woven between the mocking stares was a single, sympathetic smile.   

            They were an orphan, one of many abandoned on the church’s doorstep. As part of her training, Junia was forbidden from speaking in any manner outside of her work. Still, this child did their best to befriend her, no matter how one-sided their conversations were. They brought her treats, they held her hand when she grew lonely, and they taught her to sing…

            When asked years later, the elders refused to speak of the child, refused to speak their name. Junia could feel hazy memories bordering on the edge of her consciousness, she knew that lovely moments were locked away in her mind, but for the time being, that was all she could remember—she had a friend.

            They would have made a better Vestal than Junia could hope to be.

            Junia shook her head and sided—the elders chose her for a reason, their judgement could not be doubted. Still, it was difficult to keep her mind from wandering during such menial tasks. For example, what had happened to this Cathedral, this hamlet even? Where had its inhabitants gone? What did this heiress have in store for her? And why could Junia still hear humming despite falling silent long ago?

            She rubbed her ears—some else was humming the hymn. She scanned the Cathedral, but there was only one person it could be, right?

            No, she was imagining things. There was absolutely _no way_. She wouldn’t even entertain the thought, instead blaming it on the wind and continuing her work.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            Reynauld found the heiress difficult to look at.

            That wasn’t to insult her appearance—she was quite beautiful—but there was something...otherworldly pushing his eyes away, preventing direct contact.

            She was rather short—even Para had at least a head on the heiress. Her black hair trailed down to her waist; it was shiny, straight, and smooth, clearly well taken care of. Her black dress flared out to her knees, sparsely decorated with simple frills and buttons. Her dark clothes and hair framed her exceptionally pale face, white has snow pardon traces of pink on her lips and cheek. Her bangs swept over the left half of her face, leaving only her right eye visible; after several moments of strained eye contact, Reynauld concluded that it was an icy blue.

            “Reynauld, Dismas, it is wonderful to see you in good health,” she smiled, her voice sounding much older than she appeared.        

            Dismas, huh? Not a common name, but neither was Reynauld.

            “I thank you all for arriving ion such short notice. I trust that you have all heard tales of my grandfather’s passing, yes? And how this estate has fallen from its former glory in spectacular fashion?”

            Dismas chuckled, earning a glare from Reynauld. The heiress stood and began pacing the small room. It was a study of some sort, barely large enough to hold the four visitors. The shelves behind the heiress were lined with ancient books and trinkets ranging from wooden charms to a black eye suspended in a viscous green fluid.

            “Near the end of my grandfather’s life, he exhausted the family fortune hiring, how do you say, freelancers in an attempt to remedy his mistakes. However, after his death, the brigands took control of the estate, razing and pillaging whatever remined. What I ask is your assistance in driving them back.”

            “Fighting,” Junia squeaked, “I was told we would be- “

            “-Returning the estate to its former glory,” Dismas cut her off, “What, did you think we’d be repainting the place?”

            Junia, stunned, slumped back into her seat.

            “Our first expedition,” the heiress continued,” Will leave tomorrow at dawn. The Caretaker and I have successfully a cleared a pathway into the Ruins beneath the manor Your task will be to ensure that the brigands have not returned. Think of it as a test trial.”

            “Should you return, you shall each receive one-fifth of all treasure recovered,” she ran her hand across the desk, setting it atop a map, “Additionally, any man or woman who assists me until the task is complete will be rewarded with a portion of the estate.”

            After several seconds of silence, Dismas as the first to speak, “So Gold _and_ land in exchange for ‘driving back’ some thieves?”

            “Exactly. Are you interested?” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been finished for the last few days, I just haven't had the patience to type it up until tonight! So, let's hope there are no typos, because I'm too exhausted to go over it for the fifth time. 
> 
> Also, I know that like 90% of DD fics have a Vestal named Junia, but I just wanted to stick with the default names for this story.
> 
> Our next chapter will be titled "The First of Many"


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